


I Raised a Stone, to End His Pain

by nightmaresinwintah



Series: In The Woods Somewhere [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Ghost!Steve, Horror, Ice, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Physical Harm, a lot of pain and agony and words like that, but i gave it a glimmer of a happy ending, creates a certain ambience, hozier is a good muse, i mean they both die but it's mostly okay eventually?, i use 'it' pronouns for steve when he's most paranormal, it might be confusing but listen so is everything, lots of breaking of objects, mental harm, or dark - Freeform, read if you want to feel sad, suffering!bucky, this is not what they deserve but im sad okay, you gotta squint to see it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 21:40:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15542718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmaresinwintah/pseuds/nightmaresinwintah
Summary: Steve dies during the events of Avengers: Age of Ultron. His spirit finds its way to Bucky in Romania, but this is neither a good nor a happy thing."My dearest love, I'm not done yet..."





	I Raised a Stone, to End His Pain

**Author's Note:**

> In The Woods Somewhere by Hozier came on when I was in a bad mood and....this happened. Um. I feel better, to have gotten the emotions out? But guilty, because the boys do not deserve this? Hng. *scutters away back to my fluffy, happy WIP for the Stucky AU Big Bang* I'm sorry!!!!

It’s in the fringes, on the edge of his peripheral, dancing in the shadows and flitting out of sight when he turns to face it head-on. It comes in the dead of night, at the height of day. It turns the warm air cold, the cold air icy. It knocks mugs off of benches, turns taps on, slams doors and opens windows, letting the rain in. 

He knows what it is. It is deathless death; unrest, unfinished, therefore not able to pass on. 

He stares at his reflection in the mirror and asks himself if he is going insane. His hands - one flesh, the other metal - grip the sides of the basin hard. His knuckles are as white as his face. His lips bleed from where he has bitten at them. His face is gaunt, haunted. In the mirror, the flickering fluorescent light, he looks like a ghost. 

A door slams somewhere in the apartment. He hardly flinches, but the reverberations hit his bones, making him shudder. He squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to look at himself. It’s worse when he thinks about it; it seems to get angrier, more active. But he can’t stop, not when he knows - 

Another glass shatters on the tile of the kitchen floor. He can see the cracks in the floor from all the times this has happened. He clenches his jaw, turns to the shower. The water comes out already lukewarm but he steps in and tries to ignore the feeling of creeping cold. He very pointedly does not look at the ice crackling across the mirror. 

The fluorescent light seems to shiver, then the room is plunged into darkness. He tilts his head back, getting his hair wet. He rubs shampoo in, does not listen to the low whining coming from the other side of the room. When it does not get a reaction, the whining cuts off and ice seems to twist through the air, hitting the water. 

It freezes on his shoulders, making him wince in pain. He grits his teeth and turns the water off, reaching for a towel. The fabric is laced with frost, but he does his best to dry himself before pulling clothes on. He fumbles for the lightswitch in the dark, but the moment the light flickers on, the glass of the mirror shatters, falling into the sink and over the floor. 

He squeezes his hands into fists and tries not to react. It’s very difficult not to, but he turns away and walks out of the bathroom, over to the couch. He sits down, tries to get comfortable, avoids looking at the disarray he will attempt to clean up tomorrow. He drapes a blanket over himself, forces back the frustration as cold creeps into the room. 

It never comes too close to him. It hovers, spreading shards of ice around and freezing his very blood. Sometimes he hears voices, singing or screaming. It’s never more than a whisper, though, and he’s learned to shut it out. He makes it unbelievably furious, he knows. But what can he do?

He has what is left of his sanity to protect. He’d only just got his mind back before - before -

He slips into uneasy, dreamless sleep. 

Morning brings quiet. He gets up, shakes ice from his hair and stretches to warm up his aching limbs. His lips are blue, when he glances at the mirror hanging on the wall. He spends the morning cleaning, sweeping up glass, righting upturned chairs and closing windows. He doesn’t go into the bathroom. He doesn’t have the energy. 

He slips out of the apartment, pulling a cap low over his face. The day, in the beginning in blissfully free of any mishaps. It makes him nervous, keeps him on edge. He flinches at every sudden noise, cringes away from a cold gust of wind. The lady at the fruit stall keeps glancing over his shoulder as she serves him, shaking her head like she’s seeing things. 

He doesn’t want to go back to the apartment, but. At the same time, some part of him craves to face the chaos; begs him to return to the agony and confusion that writhes across the walls, the piercing ice and sobbing night-terrors. He hurries through the sudden rain that comes in sideways, drenching him. 

The door is hanging off its hinges when he gets back. He fixes it with practised skill, the pile of new hinges growing smaller as he replaces the old ones. He’ll have to get more, soon. 

The ice creeps in around noon, just as he’s sat down with a book. The page he’s on rips and he sets an iron grip on the novel as it’s nearly torn from his grasp. He grinds his teeth together, bares them in warning. It whines, an all-consuming, terrible aching sound wrought with horror and pain. 

He growls. The pressure on the book disappears. A bowl from the cupboard shatters. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Ice creeps down his throat and he chokes, bringing a hand to his mouth in surprise. He presses his lips together, throat working as he swallows saliva, trying to warm up again. 

There is no escape. He has lived like this for a month. He has tried everything; kindness had made it throw ice through the walls, send snow spiralling in through open windows. Aggression had caused it to whimper in a corner, the edges of reality fraying around it, paint peeling off the walls behind it. Ignoring it only made it try and get his attention. 

He is tired, worn down. 

As a mug crashes to the floor and a flurry of barely-there screeches carry through the air, Bucky takes the plunge. He stands on weak, shaky legs and prays for his mind to be good; to stay intact. An awful noise fills the air as he steps forwards; he cringes away from it, but his mind is made up. 

“Steve,” he rasps. 

It writhes, pulling cutlery from the draw. The knives and forks end up embedded in the wall, the spoons are sent through a window. He takes another step forwards, stretches out his flesh hand. It feels like his flesh is being peeled back, his bone exposed as it whines at him, the air shuddering in front of him, frostbite-air swirling around him as it lunges forward. 

“Steve,” he chokes, unbelievable pain sweeping over him. 

It sobs, indecisive, spreading its icy not-form over him like a sheet before drawing back to throw a chair across the room. They both know what will happen if it takes him, if it embraces him. They are both beings who know torture, who know despair. But for him to push it away, to save a life he does not have?

“Steve…” he begs, stretching his purple-and-blue flesh hand towards the disturbance in the air; it appears as a mirage, writhing, twisting itself inside and out. 

It gasps, the most human sound it’s ever made, as he places his hand on the edge of its form. For a brief moment, all is calm, like the centre of a storm. Then all hell breaks loose as he falls to his knees;  _ crack,  _ they go on the floor. It  _ howls,  _ all unbroken windows shattering as pressure sweeps through the apartment.

He sobs on the floor, curled around his hand, trying to protect his middle. It hovers over him, screaming, screeching, ear-splitting caterwauling. He tries to reach up to cover his ears but then it is as if nothing matters. He falls limp, staring up blearily at the mess of twisting Steve above him. 

It lowers itself over him like an avalanche. 

Like ice in his eardrums comes;  _ “Bucky, I’m so sorry, Bucky, Bucky, Bucky, I love you, I am so sorry, I don’t know what’s happening, I am so cold, I am so afraid, I am -” _

On and on it goes and he begs for it to be over. This is worse than HYDRA, worse than hearing that Steve had died on an Avengers mission saving the world from some sentient robot. He’s fallen, just as Bucky had, from floating Sokovia; down, down, down. Body to pulp. Spirit to Bucky. 

This is worse because he cannot ease Steve’s pain, he cannot end this for both of them. He does not know the outcome, he does not know what will happen. He tries to move, but he is frozen. He is immobile and Steve is babbling confused, despaired prayers. 

Darkness comes and it is welcome. 

Morning brings quiet. He gets up, shakes ice from his hair and - stops. Steve stands in front of him, form frayed a little around the edges. His eyes, normally so warm, are full of agony. Bucky stumbles in his rush to get to him. 

_ “My dearest love…” _

Ice swirls around them, the beginnings of a storm. Bucky clutches Steve close, wishes it to be real. Wishes them to be together again. When he looks up, there is the beginnings of a thaw on Steve’s face. 

Something like hope blooms beside the grave of despair in their chests. 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr at [buckyskillingme](http://buckyskillingme.tumblr.com) please come yell at me i get lonely 
> 
> seriously hozier is a lyrical genius; [in the woods somewhere lyrics](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/hozier/inthewoodssomewhere.html)


End file.
